THE OLD MAN ON THE POND

by Matthew Edwards

Chapter 1
The young boy fondly remembered sitting in the coziness of the living room in his family
home, watching the crackling fire burn away in the old-fashion black parlour stove, as he
listened to his aged grandfather tell of his great hockey moments with the big-league teams when
he was a young man. The old ice-hockey veteran retold his exciting stories of remarkable plays,
tight scores, lots of body checking, players bouncing off the boards, players without front teeth --
nobody wore face masks in those good old days. Recalled were the sounds of hockey sticks
slamming the ice, skates cutting sharply into the ice surface spraying up clouds of crystal
particles, the wildly cheering crowds -- all the actions and noises that made hockey the exciting
game that it was, and is still for people of all ages.

It was heady stuff for a young boy listening on those cold winter evenings in his modest little
house nestled deep in the snow-covered rural setting where he lived with his small family.

Jack, barely nine-years-old, had been playing his one-person hockey for several years on the
small pond behind his family home located several miles from town. He had no one to play with,
except on occasion his dad would join him, and once-in-a-while a tough and rough-playing 10-
year-old neighbouring girl, named Arlene, would test his skills against her own considerable
talents; but for the most part he played alone.

Young Jack’s dad was a shift worker in the factory town nearby. He had odd working hours
requiring the young lad to be particularly quiet at home if dad was sleeping between shifts; but
Jack didn`t mind being out of the house in back at the pond if there was ice to play on.

Young Jack was not a great skater at this point in his life. He had little to compete with
usually, except his own imagination, but he was determined to get better. He always looked
forward to each coming winter so he could lace up the beat-up hand-me-down skates and get
onto the frozen pond with his taped-up hockey stick and precious battered hockey puck.

1.
 Sometimes his father would take him into town to see the local junior league game at the old
arena. That’s where his grandfather he now missed so very much started playing when he was
young. Jack loved all the atmosphere and excitement, including the sounds and smells of this
ancient minor-league small-town hockey arena. Irresistible, too, was the smell of the giant hot
dogs rolling about on the cooker in the snack food concession between periods. I was all a great
part of the very exciting hockey experience to an enthusiastic young boy.

The town rink had no Zamboni machine to clean the ice surface, so between game periods
men on skates with snow shovels would skate with a military-like precision to scrape the ice and
renew the surface.

Jack thought of the stories of his grandfather’s glory days when he would aggressively cut a
swath across a hotly contested ice rink, snatch control of the puck and race over the blue line
towards the other team’s net, and to a goal scoring opportunity.

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Chapter 2
It was nearly Christmas when young Jack set out from the back porch of their little house
each cold day after school for the almost quarter-mile walk to the pond to check out the ice. It
still wasn’t cold enough he would discover in these early days of winter. Only a fragile, tentative,
crust was trying to form. The resident pond ducks had left for parts south just a few days before.
They knew the ice was coming.

The few remaining leaves were still falling from the big oak and other pond area trees when
the wind blew. This was late fall. Now the north wind was blowing colder and stronger-- winter
in earnest looked to be setting in.

The young boy hoped for a new pair of skates for Christmas, or even a newer second-hand
set. The ones he had were getting pretty tight he knew. He could make do with the old stick, just
put more tape on it where the wood had worn down. He had his prized hockey puck tucked away
in a safe and secure hiding place. The puck had been given to him by his grandfather and was
one that his grandfather himself had scored an important goal with in a winning big-league game
many years before.

The wind was now biting sharply at Jack’s uncovered face on the long walk back to the house
where he knew there would be a hot fire in the old parlour stove. Mom, wearing her apron and a
constantly loving smile, would have dinner on in the kitchen. It would be hot and delicious, as
always, and it would smell just so great. Maybe she had made one of her famous pies, he
thought.

Since his father had recently gone away to work at the main company factory several towns
away, there were just Jack and his doting mother, along with Skeeziks, the peppy little Jack
Russell terrier, and Czynka, the not too peppy Russian cat, to share the cozy, drafty little white
clapboard cottage located at the end of the long, quiet and lonely country road.

The little radio in the living room squawked that there was a good chance of snow, and it
would become much colder. This would be good for Jack’s little pond, he hoped.

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Chapter 3
Each morning the little boy would rub away the frost from his bedroom window as he hurriedly
dressed. Czynka the cat might peek out from under the pile on Jack’s bed, yawn and usually return to the
warmth under the covers without any further ceremony. It was cold in that upstairs back room and the lad
often took his clothes with him downstairs to the parlour, accompanied as always by the faithful Skeeziks,
where he finished dressing behind the heat of the old parlour stove that his mother would get going before
Jack got up. He always looked through the frosted window out over the meadow toward where he knew
the pond was before he left the room and wondered how the ice on the pond was doing. One morning
when he looked out he saw a snow-white rabbit scampering along, stopping, now and then, on the path to
the pond. The rabbit seemed to be looking up and calling Jack to come out and look.

Jack would hurry into the kitchen still pulling on his socks as he went, feeling the ice-cold floor
beneath his feet. He knew his mother would have a piping hot bowl of oatmeal, with a heap of brown
sugar on top, waiting for him. He would pour on a little milk, but he had to hurry in order to meet the
school bus that would be soon turning around at the bottom of his lane.

He finished his breakfast just in time to hear the toot of the friendly bus driver’s horn. Jack grabbed his
lovingly-made peanut butter and jam sandwich his mother prepared for him, along with his milk
money...he was soon out the door pulling on his parka as he went for that long run down the windy
driveway, still holding his toque and mittens in his hands, accompanied as always by the happy, loyal
Skeeziks; the cat Czynka only bold enough to watch out the living room window from the warmth of the
inside sill.

With Jack fully inside the bus it lurched forward, air brake hissed, the smell of diesel hung like a heavy
cloud on the air waiting for the wind to blow it along. Jack looked out and gave a friendly goodbye wave
to Skeeziks as the bus roared away.

Watching the passing countryside through the frosted bus window was always a special delight in
winter. The ride to school wasn’t a long one, and it was fun being with the other noisy kids of all ages for
the run into town. At the end of the journey stood that old edifice that was their school, newly built many
decades even before his much-loved grandfather attended there in his own childhood days.

4.
Chapter 4
Remembering the rabbit that morning, Jack could hardly wait for the school bus to drop him
off at his home lane that afternoon after school. With great excitement he ran down the lane
toward the path to the back-forty with the waiting Skeeziks in tow. He noticed how the scenery
had changed from the day before as a result of the light snow now falling.

Much of the path was slippery as the snow on the rocks made it treacherous underfoot. He
could see the pond in the distance through the mostly bare trees in the woodlot in front of the
pond.

At last he was there, leaning down to feel and test the thin ice on the surface of the little pond,
and checking out the narrow stream that fed it. It was starting to freeze over. He yelled out loud
with great excitement...’YIPPEE!’

It would be days for the ice to become thick enough to stand on, but he would check every
day hoping the cold weather would remain to make the pond freeze more quickly.

As he ran back to the little house in the distance with the spiral of smoke coming from the
chimney, he saw the same little rabbit that he had seen earlier in the day. It seemed to be saying,
‘see I told you so’, as it skooted off into the underbrush beside the path just ahead of the little
barking dog.

When he swung open the back kitchen door he was greeted by the sweet smells of something
great cooking along with the smoky smell of the hot maple-wood fire burning in the old stove.
He shouted with great glee to his mother, ‘the ice is coming’, ‘the ice is coming’.

She laughed as she hugged him in a way only dear loving mothers can do.

5.
Chapter 5
Jack woke up suddenly one morning without his mother calling him. It was Saturday, so no
school. He knew it was cold, very, very cold. He knew that it was cold outside because it was
very cold inside. Even the cat refused to make a token appearance from under the warm covers,
the only evidence of her being there was a barely moving lump. But Skeeziks always was raring
to go, as he bounced none too gingerly from the bed with a loud clump onto the floor. Jack
couldn’t see out the window pane he always looked out of as it was totally glazed over by hard
frost, artistic looking patterns zig-zagging across the window pane refracting the light in
mysterious and wonderful ways, against a white background and the low morning winter sun
outside.

Desperately he looked for something to scrape away the frost with, finally settling for an old
hockey card he kept carefully pinned to the wall.

It was tough scraping. The ice layer was pretty thick, but slowly it came off with vigorous
scraping, much at the expense of the poor hockey card. He was beginning to be able to see
through a little round patch of bare glass.

It was a misty and cold morning alright, the mist occasionally cleared for a moment when a
fresh breeze blew it away. The path to the pond slowly appeared but soon petered from view
again as the fog rolled in from far off adding to the wintery bluster which at that moment
presented itself. And there was the little white rabbit scurrying about and sniffing the air about
the path here and there, pausing for a brief moment looking towards the boy peeking through the
small hole on the frosted bedroom window. Jack believed the rabbit to be saying, ‘come out, the
ice is fine’.

Almost beside himself with excitement the little boy scrambled through his dresser looking
for his heaviest pair of winter long johns. He was going out to play some serious all-star one-boy
hockey.

6.
Chapter 6
Jack quickly finished dressing, not bothering to complete the process behind the old stove
downstairs because his mother was not yet up to set the morning fire. Only a slight warmth was
felt as the boy touched the top of the stove with his hand, the embers remaining within being the
remnants of the previous night’s warming fire.

Carefully removing his old pair of skates from their secure storage place out in the back
porch, Jack carefully laced on these precious gems - a bit tight he thought, but last year they were
a bit loose.

With his parka more-or-less on, his toque not very carefully placed upon his head so that it
crowded down to the top of one eye, he was off, stick in gloved hand, skates on, walking if not
running through deep, crisp snow toward the beckoning path and pond -- of course, Skeeziks
bounding yapily not far behind.

The early morning sun shone brightly through the ice laden tree branches and surrounding
bushes, which cracked as they were brushed by, or moved by the wind. It was cold, very cold.
The ice should be perfect, he hoped, as he crunched on.

Jack was not disappointed as he cleared the final stretch of path on the long run to the pond.
His skates left sharp slices on the trail’s snow behind him. The ice in front of him looked solid, it
was very solid on closer examination as he carefully slid out further onto the pond. Then he did
his season’s first face-plant, smack down on the cold ice, much to the concern of the worried
Skeeziks. ‘Hurray,’ the lad shouted from his fallen position, his season of great hockey
excitement was about to commence. He then got up and took a great bow to an imaginary row of
adoring fans.

He didn’t waste a moment shoveling the light powder of snow off the surface of the ice that
the wind had not blown away, using the battered snow shovel he had left nearby on a previous
visit to the great pond.

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Chapter 7
Jack’s mother was by now up and out of bed and had started the old parlour stove fire. She
called up the stairway to Jack as she was making breakfast, “Jack, time to get up. Breakfast is
almost ready”.

Not hearing the usual rustling and clumping on the floor from above she again called to wake
him up, finally climbing the narrow stairs herself to find only an unmade bed with no Jack in it --
no little dog, only the cat braving a look out from under the covers. She noticed a narrowing
circle on the window clear of ice.

She was pretty sure she knew what was going on. She slipped on her coat and boots and made
for the path beyond, just to make sure all was well with her precious little boy, easily following
the skate blade marks in the snow.

Peering finally through the brush at the end of the long path she could see a little shape
happily skating the length and breadth of the small pond with the skater periodically shooting the
puck into an imaginary net represented by two rocks set upon the ice at each end of the pond.
Slash, bang, scrape -- how happy he seemed as he flailed away at the ever-moving puck.

She was eventually able to convince Jack that he should return to the house to enjoy the hot
breakfast she had prepared for him of homemade sausages, eggs, and toast from a loaf she had
baked the day before. This breakfast was too tempting for him to ignore. Given the necessary
assurances that he could return for the second period Jack walked with her to the warmth of their
little home.

8.
Chapter 8
Jack played his hockey all by himself in the dark of the evening every day. Night came early
in the dead of winter, and only the moon playing on the ice provided any light. Little Skeeziks
wagged his stubby little tail as each goal was scored between the rocks set on the ice. This was
Jack’s entire after school activity, along with the modest household chores he had assigned to
him -- looking after the small clutch of pullets and collecting their tiny eggs.

There were rocks, some round, some rough, some jagged, jutting out, here-and-there, close to
the edges of the little pond. These rocks became the other players as he skated by them,
sometimes catching a blade on a passing rock that might produce a bright spark momentarily
flashing a little more light on the otherwise only moonlit ice.

The ice-covered overhanging willow branches were other players, too, to be avoided…or they
might sometimes be the cheering and clapping crowds as they waved and clapped in the wind.

He would skate to one end of the pond, shoot a goal into the imaginary net, then skate back to
the other end body-checking the shadow of himself on the ice in the moonlighted night.

Every night his mother would call from the far away back porch that dinner was ready. If the
wind was just right he might barely make out the sound of her soft calling voice in the distance.

His daily practices on the pond were developing his skills and his skating was getting better.
He would dearly like a new pair of skates that fit better, and his poor old hockey stick was
getting pretty shabby in spite of the repeated tapings.

But it was always great fun, no matter how cold and dark it was, and at the end of play, his
mother’s great dinner was always waiting for him.

9.
Chapter 9
One very cold late afternoon, the north wind was unmerciful, the snow was blowing hard. A
magical darkness settled on the glistening pond, as first dusk, then the blackness came. There
was sparkling ice on every surface -- on the rocks, on the tree branches that dangled and waved
above the pond surface. It was a beautiful wintery wonderland, crowded with little creatures that
were the watchers of this little hockey game, with Skeeziks, and sometimes the little rabbit, as
part of the spectating crowd.

There was a real bite in the air with the light snow turning into crystals as they were blown
around and rolled along the surface of the ice. The moon peeked out from behind the clouds
every once in a while, then again would dash for cover behind the darkness of another cloud.

The brisk breeze picked up some last remnants of the autumn leaves, mixing these in a
whirlwind of vortexes, together with the ice and snow crystals. As the whirlwind danced upon
the ice, Jack with puck at-the-ready, was slowly skating towards this increasing flurry, which
was responding to his checking to-and-fro. Then the whirlwind flurry started to take on form. It
slowly it became like an image, then like the vague outline of an old man, barely visible within
the swirl. Appearing as if wearing an ancient big-league hockey team-sweater the old man in the
swirl danced and counter-checked, sparing aggressively with its little boy opponent on the dark
ice. The sounds of blades cutting and scraping the ice grew louder as the speed and energy of the
play increased to exciting levels -- over just many long moments. Overhanging branches, when
brushed by, dropped their icy crystals tingling noisily down to the ice as the scrimmage passed
underneath, all sounding like fans cheering young Jack.

Then as suddenly, as the old man appeared, he was gone, leaving only the leaves and ice
pellets gently sliding and rolling about on the surface of the ice where once the image had
appeared.

A gentle female voice could be faintly heard coming on the wind...’Jaack, Jaaack, Ja a a ck’.
It was his mother calling from the dark far away. It was dinner-time at the little cozy, warm,
Christmas-lighted and decorated clapboard cottage. The smoke curled lazily from the roof-top
red brick chimney.

Jack faintly heard a familiar carol playing on the radio from inside the house as he
approached. The peal of a distant church bell could be heard as it sounded from the country
church a concession away.

It was Christmas Eve, and among other great things expected that special night, was that his
father would be coming home.

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